Sleeping Sins
by TorchwoodFallenAngel
Summary: The night John Winchester goes to visit Missouri Moseley he takes baby Sammy with him, setting in motion a chain of events that will change his sons' futures in a way nobody could even imagine. Wincest - but they don't know they're related - Sleeping Beauty sort-of AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Aloha! This is my first story in a while and my first multi-chapter story! Hooray! I spent around seven months working on this - the first one or so spent writing up the first drafts and the next few months primping it and filling it and adding to it. Then I got stuck, spent a few months desparing, and finally, in a fit of determination, finished it in a few weeks.**

**It sprung from a tiny plot bunny and sprouted into this; a wincest Sleeping Beauty-based AU with added BAMF-Missouri and angsty John for good measure. I really hope you enjoy it and I ask you very kindly to review it - every review means tons to me! Thank you reader.**

**This is TorchwoodFallenAngel, signing off.**

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It's a cold, wet night when the doorbell rings. It may be cliché but to Missouri Mosely it only adds to the desperation and misery she can feel emanating from the soaked figure on her doorstep. There is a bundle in its arms, small and warm and radiating the feeling that only babies can - an undisturbed contentment, only needing nourishment and love. It is a warm, safe happiness. She remembers feeling like that. She misses it. But there is something wrong, something off. A sour taint, a hint of sulphur.

The other figure is so sorrowful it hurts her to open the door. Every bone in her body is telling her to run and hide, lock the door and turn out the lights and curl up in bed. But she doesn't. She has a duty to do. Her powers have given a reason, a purpose. She must fulfil that purpose, whatever pain it brings.

She opens the door.

The despair hits her like a wave. The figure lifts its head. It's a man. He looks haggard and desperate, a mantra of _Mary, Dean, Sammy_, rocketing round his head over and over again. She says nothing but opens the door wider and ushers him in.

She sits him down by the fire, pushes a glass of whisky into his hands. The baby is fast asleep and she lays it down on a bed of blankets by the fire. Neither the father nor the baby object. It's only when she sits down opposite the man, discreetly rifling through his thoughts, when she realises that she knows the face. It's the poor man whose wife died in that horrendous fire. The fire reeked of demon. The significance of the taint on the baby hits her with all the force of a nun with a switch.

He wants to know what happened to his wife, _sweet, sweet Mary_. He wants to know about why it started in his youngest son's room, _innocent, perfect Sammy_, slumbering by the fire. He wants to know if his other son is in danger; _brave, stubborn Dean_. She answers all his questions truthfully, knowing that if anything is to happen it needs to happen quickly. Time is of the essence. She barrels on, ignoring everything, slapping his knee every time he interrupts. By four o'clock he knows most of what there is to know; what happened to his wife, why it happened, and why Sammy seems so strange.

She picks Sammy up, smiling when sleepy hazel eyes blink open and focus on her face, a barrage of _mamasafesleepyfood_ flooding her head. She drops a soft kiss on the little boy's forehead and she gags as the sulphur taint grows even stronger. God, the poor thing. So tainted, so young. It's over for the poor thing before it's even started. Nothing can get rid of that demon taint now. The poor babe.

She breaks it to the man as quickly as she can.

John screams.

The glass smashes, the whisky pouring over his fingers. He hisses as the alcohol gets into the cuts. "I'm so sorry" is all she can say. _Mary and Sammy_ slams into her over and over, heavy as a ton of bricks. "He's taken both of them from me." It's the last lament of a crumbling man with a dying soul.

She knows what she has to do. Missouri Moseley may only be a physic but she has friends. Very special friends. And you learn things when you have friends like the ones she has. She knows how to fire a gun and kill a vampire and protect herself from ghosts and Wendigos and use an iron poker to kill spirits and most of all, cast spells.

Sammy Winchester can't be saved. But he can be helped. He can be protected. Protection spells are her forte, if she has a forte. And she knows exactly the spell. Because one day the evil in Sam's blood will start to take hold, will start to corrupt that wonderful, innocent soul she can feel forming. She can't stop that from happening. But she can delay it, wait for things to work out, nip the evil in the bud, wait for it to shrivel and die.

Missouri has always been a romantic at heart but she has a vicious, protective side, one to rival that of a threatened mother bear. Therefore, this is the perfect spell. Her favourite childhood story turned into a spell, words woven into a powerful piece of magic designed to keep a child safe from evil. It's perfect. There may be casualties, there always are, but that is to be expected. Magic like this takes its purpose very seriously. Sammy's protection is paramount. Everything else is just collateral damage. And at least it won't be as bad as if Sam's powers were to emerge and the demon found him.

So she gathers rose petals and candles, rose oil and blankets. She sends John upstairs to collect her wedding pillows and sheets. She's kept them in her bedroom cupboard but knows this will be the perfect time to use them. Sammy gurgles when she places him in the centre of a circle of wax and waves his chubby arms in delight when she scatters rose petals over him.

John hovers, watching with the sharp eyes of desperate father and nervous soldier. His worry permeates the room so much Missouri is tempted to make him leave but she knows that's not what needs to happen. John is Sam's father so he needs to be here. She places four beautiful wax candles to stand guard at the babies head and feet. The infant coos at the shadows flickering on the wall.

She paints symbols drawn in on rose oil on the floor, muttering to herself as the dark lines form swirls and whorls and abstract pictures on the wood, seeping through the grain where they stain it. It's a necessary sacrifice. Sammy lets out a little inquisitive noise and burst of _coldwetnasty_ when she draws one special symbol on his forehead in the rose oil and she smiles down at the little thing, nodding as deep brown eyes, so perfectly innocent, stare boldly back at her. He's ready.

She lights the four candles, mouthing the words of the prayer she learnt so long ago as a child "_Matthew, Mark, Luke and John bless the bed that I lay on_…" and then drops the match on the floor and watches in satisfaction as the oil catches fire, travelling fast from swirl to swirl until Sammy is surrounded by fire. John leaps forward, ready to protect his son but Missouri fixes him with a glare, muttering frantically. She needs to do this quickly because - yes, there.

Sammy's starting to sniffle, his six month old brain recognizing _heat_ and his young brain supplying _danger_ in lieu of explanation. She picks up a furl of paper, words written on it in old ink, and burns it in the flame, letting the ashes drop over Sammy, leaving black smudges all over his face. He sneezes when some tickle his nose and John smiles slightly. It's just an upward twitch of the lips but it's a welcome sight all the same.

A few more words on aging paper and a bowl of rose petals are doused in rose oil and are set on fire, Sammy whimpering for his father, for safety, as the flames roar. She has to physically restrain John from diving in and breaking the spell completely. It's nearly over. There's a roar of wind and the flames are dancing and swaying, burning brighter than before and Sammy can't help but gurgle in babbling glee at the pretty shapes being painted on the wall, joy distracting him from the heat.

It's all over the next second. Missouri smothers the flames and reaches in and picks up Sammy, cradling the young thing tight. He stares up at her with patient young eyes and she tentatively brushes through his mind. The sulphur taint is still there, contained right in the back of his mind but - yes. A little bud is blooming, thorns starting to grow around it. The spell worked.

She smiles in smug satisfaction, handing John back to Sam and nodding in answer to his silent question. He collapses on the sofa, the relief setting in as he realises the implications. He thinks Sam is safe. It's good enough for now. He doesn't need to know the details, especially not the details of what is going to happen next. It's all for the best but he won't understand it, not in his state.

The phone rings in the other room and Missouri answers, holding it out to John. It's Dean - a brave, stubborn little boy with all the courage of a tiger if Missouri's powers aren't failing her - and he's complaining. He wants his dad and his Sammy back._ His_ Sammy. Interesting.

John glances at her and she nods, pretends to think, tells him that she might have to keep Sammy for a bit, just check and see if everything is ok with the spell, see if _that thing_ has placed any fail safes - he hasn't, of course he hasn't, he's way too thick for that, hasn't counted on the involvement of Missouri Moseley - but she needs the time alone with the baby. John nods at her, beams brokenly in desperate gratitude, makes to pay her. She refuses. He'll need that money.

As soon as he's out of the door she's on the phone, calling a friend in the area. He can do what she needs. He knows a family in California who want another baby _and_ truly deserve one. Sammy will be safe with this new family. He won't be safe with John. Missouri has seen his thoughts crystallising, revenge blooming black and ugly and all-consuming in the back of his mind. She won't let Sammy be raised in that environment, so close to the evil that he's just been pulled from. John won't like it. But he'll have to live with it.

A tense ten minutes later she gets another phonecall from John. Dean is being whiny and the police want to talk to him again. He won't be back for at least another three quarters of an hour, is that okay with her? She tells him not to worry. It will give Sammy a forty minute head start to his new life.

The black car pulls up outside the house five minutes after that. She scurries outside, holding Sammy close. She places the baby in the backseat reverently, brushes a kiss on his forehead and coos as heavy lids flutter slightly. This is better. He'll have a chance now. Better this than dying for a father's revenge.

She watches until she can't see the car anymore then goes back inside, cleans the floor up until you can barely see any evidence of her work, settles in her armchair and waits. Waits for the storm to break on her doorstep and sweep her up. _It's better this way, it's better this way _she tells herself. It's better this way. She takes her rifle from the laundry cupboard. She thinks she's going to need it.

The next morning John Winchester sits in his motel room cursing the Moseley name twenty centuries back and resolving to never trust a physic again. He nurses a bottle of whisky and rubs at the scrape on his leg where a bullet had grazed him. Dean sleeps in the next room and dreams of fire. John tries to some up with a cover story. There's no point in trying to get Sammy back. Missouri is too clever for that. He might as well concentrate on his new job. He's going to need to find someone to teach him.

Four states over Sammy is welcomed into his new family and introduced to his older sister. The adoption forms are perfect. Nobody would know the difference between these and real ones. Samuel Winchester becomes Samuel Moore.

And back in Lawrence Missouri drinks from a cup of coffee and reassures herself that this was the right thing to do. It's better this way. It's all better this way. She doesn't notice the roses curling under her carpet, growing from once-dead, oil-stained wood.


	2. Chapter 2

**OK, so second chapter! Hope you enjoy this one as much as the first one and thank you so much for reading on! It means a lot that people actually want to read these little ideas of mine! Again, please review to tell me what you think!**

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Palo Alto is a college town. Dean _hates_ college towns. They're filled with stupid college kids basically leaping to become monster bait. They stay out late, get pissingly drunk and don't carry weapons. Not even a set of keys to keep away the human monsters. Civilians can be so stupid at times.

The lucky bride-to-be in the next booth along from him screeches drunkenly into her mobile and he buries his head in his newspaper, cursing the lack of decent coffee in this shitty little faux diner. The missing person alert is small, tucked away in the corner of Page 3, but it stands out to Dean like, well, a missing persons alert on a Page 3. It's one more alert in a long line of disappearances - nearly twenty in the last four years.

At first he dismissed it as nothing more than the usual runaways and people just falling through the cracks of society but a nagging hunch and little help from Ash's hacking skills had help him prove that theory completely wrong. All the missing people had one thing in common, something so small but significant that even the police either looked over it or just ignored it; where they had last been seen around, outside or heading to. Briar Apartments.

So he had looked into it. The police had been no help whatsoever. Neither had any of the old tenants. So he had re-employed Ash. And the mullet-adorned hacker had found something very interesting buried in police reports and newspaper articles. Briar Apartments had been abandoned for four years after a freak fire had presumably killed every single inhabitant. Presumably, because no-one had actually ever been able to find out. Anyone who went in to investigate never came out. People would be talking on radios one minute and then would never be heard from again.

According to thermal imaging and rudimentary guesswork the police had managed to determine where the fire had started; the apartment of Samuel Moore and his sister Jessica. Their parents died two years before the fire so there was nobody to talk to about either Samuel or Jessica. He has no leads on the source of the fire because no-one ever survives that long, the police try and stay out of it and his dad's journal says nothing. Even Ash's skills eventually hit a dead end. He's got nothing. Nothing but a major hunch that this is definitely Dean's kind of gig. Whatever's in there is vicious and pissed-off and doesn't care who it kills. He's really looking forward to ganking it.

He goes there in the middle of the night which isn't the best idea but will stop some nosy neighbourhood watch fusser from alerting the police. To be perfectly honest, it doesn't look that bad. It may be burnt out on the inside but the front looks almost scorch-free. The only off thing are the burnt-out windows and peeling paint. He has to admit though, it does have a definite haunted house aura. It gives him the willies.

He goes in the front for once - it feels weird going through the front door. He's normally climbing through windows and clambering over barbed wire. It creaks ominously. He steps in boldly, only jumping slightly when the wind slams it shut behind him. He's a brave, manly hunter. He's not scared of a little wind.

According to one of Ash's numerous sources every police and fire expedition cut off contact when they reached the top floor. So that's where he's going first. Straight into the action, that's him. It's only when he's on the second to top floor that he starts to notice them. There's only a few at first but more seem to gather as he moves upwards.

There are roses growing out of the floor.

And not just the floor. They're growing out of the light fittings and the plugs and from behind the paintings and the cracks in the paintwork. It's downright freaking creepy, that's what it is. It's made worse by the fact that, as far as he can tell, they're blood red. Like really blood red. He doesn't want to think about how they got like that.

He ascends the staircase up to the top floor with caution, noting with discomfort that not only does his phone suddenly seem to have no reception, there are more roses every step he takes. It's like they've been waiting. By the time he reaches the top step and is peering along the corridor, the place is covered with them - the walls, the ceiling, the floors. He thanks the Lord he's wearing thick boots.

All of the apartment doors are sealed tight, thorny vines sprouting out of the keyholes. Dean doesn't really care about that though. His attention is focused solely on the far end of the corridor. There is one door wide open, a yawning black hole in the sea of red and green. Apartment 33. Samuel and Jessica Moore's apartment, where this whole thing seems to have started. The doorframe is adorned with thorns, warning the more fearful of travellers that they had better turn back now or they'll never go anywhere again. Dean is most definitely not one of them.

He pulls out the machete he's tucked into his inside pocket and grips it tight, noting that he hasn't been attacked yet. It's strange. He never usually spends this long in one place without being attacked. It puts him on edge. Also, strangely - really, really, _really_ strangely - he feels like he recognises this. He shouldn't. He's read his dad's journal a million times over. There is nothing familiar about this situation. But then again there is. It's like déjà vu keeps creeping up, tapping him on the shoulder then running away giggling.

He steps through the doorway and something crunches under his foot. It's a hand. A skeletal hand. Well, he's definitely found the right place. He takes another step in, immediately feeling the first strains of claustrophobia start to grasp him. He's surrounded by roses, thorns sharp and ready to tear him to shreds if he takes so much as a step in the wrong direction. There are ones above his head, growing in a way that reminds Dean of those covered walkways in posh gardens in old English films like Pride and Prejudice. Yes, he's seen it. Luckily he never saw the girl again.

When he looks closer he can see more bones suspended in the mass of roses, lengths of vines keeping them from dropping. There are whole skeletons lying on the floor and various other limbs scattered randomly; a skull there, a femur there, a hand positioned in such a way it looks like it's reaching out in desperation. There's a skeleton lying on the sofa. It's like the furniture catalogue from Hell. The roses are even darker here.

He follows the path through what was once the sitting room, past a near-burnt out kitchen and down the hall. At the end of the hall is a door that is shut tight. He somehow knows that what he is looking for is in there. He pushes the door open, blinking in astonishment as light floods his retinas, his torch suddenly redundant. He steps in and closes the door behind him. When his eyes adjust to the sudden light he looks up, taking in the scene in front of him. This time he really does drop the machete.

The room is perfectly preserved, not a single sign of fire damage. Not one soot stain or scorch mark. It's as though the room was protected. The roses have retreated now, only covering the wall and ceilings in layers, each and every rose fully bloomed. A carpet of rose petals blankets the floor, each one perfectly preserved. There's a bed at the far end of the room, a scattering of rose petals on the covers.

There's someone asleep in the bed.

Dean blinks. He blinks again, shakes his head and hits himself with the torch. It's still there. Dean's eyes are not deceiving him. There is someone asleep in the bed. Or more precisely, a young man. A beautiful young man. It's not a corpse; he can see the chest rise and fall with every breath. Realisation hits Dean like a blast of rock salt to the chest.

It's sleeping beauty. The boy is the beauty, the apartment is the tower and Dean is apparently the Prince. Or any other person who decides to investigate the mystery of Briar Apartments. He walks over to the side of the bed, ignoring how the roses seem to move in a non-existent breeze, vines reaching out towards him. The beauty is still asleep, apparently undisturbed by Dean's arrival.

He brushes away a few petals obscuring the boy's face and his breath catches in his throat. God, he's beautiful. He's incredible, exquisite. Words can't give justice to this beauty. His hair is silky and brown, fanned out around his head like a halo, his lips soft and plump and red. All Dean wants to do is lean down and kiss those perfect lips. And that is exactly the plan, he realises.

The boy is bait, the most perfect bait Dean can think of. Anybody who goes exploring is most likely going to find him, drawn by some curiosity they can't put their finger on. They come up, see the boy, and kiss him. And because they're not his true love, they die. But how? He sits up and watches how the roses move towards him. Oh. He grimaces as he realises. Shredded by vicious, overprotective roses in order to protect the sleeping beauty.

There's some powerful magic at work, a strong and ruthless protection spell designed to eliminate any possible threat. The only person who can break this spell is the boy's true love. One true love. One person in seven billion. The odds are so small they're almost non-existent. And that's probably the point. Whoever wanted this boy asleep never wanted him to wake up.

So the boy will wait here for all eternity while his true love wanders the earth none the wiser, anyone else dying a death worthy of a fairytale prince. And Dean knows this is where he has to make a choice. He can leave, letting the boy be and lie asleep for ever more, or he can kiss the boy, take his chance, and most probably die. There's a problem. This is a honey trap of the most exquisite kind and that means that there are no loopholes. He can't just leave. Or, more to the point, he doesn't want to leave.

He can feel the desire tugging him in, pulling him close to the boy. He really has no choice in the matter anymore. This spell is very persistent and Dean is helpless. He can feel the boy's allure pulling him in, feel the desire to take and keep and protect and love slowly ensnaring him. The need to be close to the boy, to be his one and only, is nearly overwhelming.

This is a strong spell. No civilian could have even tried to resist it. Overcome with desire they would have kissed the boy and been ripped to shreds by the thorns, twenty lives sacrificed to the sleeping beauty. And the worst thing; Dean doesn't care. Even knowing what will most happen to him can't stop him. He can't imagine leaving the boy, can't imagine saving his own life at the cost of letting every other drunk college kid that wandered in try their chance.

The idea makes him sick, the mere thought of any other man or woman so much as touching the boy making his stomach churn and his skin crawl. He can't bear it. He has to have the boy, has to _try_.

Anyway, he's lived long enough. He's a hunter, already too old for his skin. He feels like an old man inhabiting the body of thirty year old. He has too many broken bones, too many scars, too many wounds. His joints ache, his reflexes are faltering, his "joie de vivre" extinguished a long time ago. He's already lost everyone, all his family dead and buried. His mother and baby brother died in a fire when he was four, his father dead after hunting down the thing that had taken their lives and dragging it down to hell with him as he went.

The only person worth living for at this exact moment is the sleeping beauty.

He sits down on the bed, gazing in wonder at the beautiful face of the slumbering young man, leaning over to delicately trace the soft red lips, skin tingling at every puff of breath against his fingertips. He leans over, leans down to lay one kiss on the cupid's kiss so flawlessly formed by the curves of the boy's lips, and something crumbles in his pocket, drawing him out of his reverie. He pulls it out and stares at it curiously, breath catching in his throat when he realises what it is. It's a picture of Samuel and Jessica Moore. Samuel's body was never found. Now he knows why.

The Sam in the photo is every bit as beautiful as the one asleep next to him and it's clear he hasn't aged a single day. This spell is sticking as close to the story as possible; never-ending sleep, forest of roses, aging paused until true love's kiss. He puts the picture back in his pocket and leans back over, hovering over Sam so low their lips are almost brushing.

He can smell Sam from here. He smells of roses and soap, clean and perfect. At any other time he would be alarmed by these thoughts but he knows it's just the spell working its way through his system. "Sam," he whispers, letting the name roll smoothly off his tongue. It sounds so _right_. Samuel, his Samuel. "My Samuel. My Sammy." Yes, his Sammy. His wonderful, beautiful, perfect, flawless Sammy. He gently brushes a stray rose petal from Sam's cheek, right under his eye, marvelling at the silky softness of the boy's tan skin.

He braces himself, eyes fixed on Sam's lips. He is ready. He has no-one who would really miss him, only those who will wonder, who will try his phone a couple of times then give up, quickly mourning the loss but moving on anyway. Ash is just an acquaintance, Ellen and Jo both hate his guts after the incidence with the time-travel and he hasn't spoken to Bobby for ten years. It's his time. He only hopes it will be quick.

He leans down, pressing a kiss so full of passion and love it makes his heart feel like it's bursting, one more loving than any before it, to Sam's lips, closing his eyes in resignation as he feels the brush of thorns against his neck.


	3. Chapter 3

**Last chapter! Whoo! The way I left it has left it very open-ended and that is for a very good reason - I don't know how to carry it on. If I did then it would be much, much longer and I know that it will lose it's way and I don't want to do that to a good piece of writing. Like before, please enjoy it and review and thank you so much for reading this far, it means an awful, awful lot to me.**

**This is TorchwoodFallenAngel signing off.**

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The first thing Dean notices is the fact that he is not in fact being torn to shreds by thorns. The second thing he notices is the small flakes of ash falling down in front of his eyes and speckling Sam's face with black. He looks up and swears quietly. The roses are burning. They're just crumbling into ash now but Dean can see sparks and little flames starting to lick at the wallpaper. There's a little gasp from beneath him and he looks down, straight into a pair of wide brown eyes filled with fear.

He opens to his mouth to say something, anything - how can he possibly explain any of this? He desperately searches for something to say when the boys' eyes slide closed again. Well that's a bloody useful case duex ex-whatever-it-is. He takes his chance and scoops the now unconscious young man up, carrying him like a bride. Then he starts running.

He struggles through the walkway of roses, ignoring the heat now pouring from the room. The fire is roaring now, the walls of the sitting rooms blistering and blacking, black smoke engulfing him. He runs even faster, heaving the boy over his shoulder in order to carry him without burning his fingers on denim when he inevitably slips from his arms. He leaps down the stairs, trying his hardest to ignore the furnace raging behind him.

He kicks open the front door and runs to the car, laying the boy down the back as gently as he can. There are people starting to gather and he can hear sirens in the distance. Nobody actually seems to notice him, probably the last remnants of the curse working their hardest to protect the boy even after everything else has crumbled to ash. He gets out of there as fast as he possibly can and doesn't look back.

He drives and drives until he's as far out of Palo Alto as he can be without driving out of the state. He waits until they're on a near-abandoned freeway and only then does he stop. He pulls over, gets out and collapses, kneeling in the scrub and brush in shock, ice weaving it's way through his veins and winding round his heart like thorny vines, digging in deep.

He's the Prince. The Prince. As in, the Prince who wakes Sleeping Beauty, his one true love, from the witch's deadly curse. But he's not a prince and this isn't a fairy tale. He's a hunter and this is real life. He's not got a castle or a trusty steed, only a string of grotty motels and an admittedly impressive Impala, and his love isn't a beautiful princess cursed by a prick on her thumb. His love is a young man, a college student, sent into a street by an unknown curse. A beautiful young man yes, stunning if Dean wants to get poetical.

He should take Sam away. He should leave the boy by the side of the road, let him stumble his way into a safe new life. But he can't. It would kill him to let him go, tear apart his heart and leave him empty if he did. But he can't hunt with Sam. He couldn't bear to see Sammy hurt in any way, whether that be him hurt by a hunt or hurt seeing Dean hurt - would he be hurt if Dean got hurt? Will he love him as much Dean does? God he hopes so.

He could go to talk to Missouri… No. The old bag would just root around in his head and glare at him in that way that threatened bodily harm with cutlery. What he needs to do is find a motel. A motel, a bed, food and newspapers. He's going to need lots of newspapers.

He finds a motel about forty miles down the highway and gets a room with two queens. He was itching to say a king, it sounds so right, so _good_. There are so many implications, so many ideas that make him so unbearably _hot_. He shakes his head to chase away the ghosts of heat and carries Sam into the room like a bride, swearing to the frowning receptionist that _no, my brother is not a junkie, just very, very drunk. You know what these college kids are like right?_ smiling big and wide and bright, trying to dislodge the strange longing feeling in him that blossoms at _brother_.

He sets Sam down on the bed, gulping at the boy writhes and turns, shirt riding up, body curving into sinfully beautiful shapes before settling on a lazily obscene sprawl, legs splayed, t-shirt hitched up. Dean can't find it in himself to pull it down for him. That strip of skin is far too inviting and places far too many thoughts in his head, thoughts that he would rather not get rid of.

He gives the room service man $50 to go out and buy a copy of every daily newspaper he can get his hands on, two takeaway coffees - one black, two sugars, one plain black with those little packets of milk and sugar in case Sammy likes it differently to him - a bacon double cheeseburger and fries for him and a salad with vinaigrette dressing for Sam. He doesn't really want to know how he knows this.

He lays the newspapers on the bedside table, eats his cheeseburger, drowns his fries in ketchup, sips his coffee, sits and waits for Sam to wait. And maybe he watches him sleep at times. But only a little. He swears it's the curse making him do it. He knows otherwise. The curse is all gone now, faded and unneeded after its job has been completed. This is all love.

_True love_ that little voice in the back of his head whispers teasingly. And the thing is, Dean thinks it's right. He's never been a great believer in true love; in fact he always tended to dismiss it as fairy tale fodder, for little kids and teenage girls, but he knows that is there is such a thing then this is it. He wants to protect Sam from all the evil in the world, hold him tight and kiss him slowly through the night. He wants to keep Sam forever. He wants Sam to be his and to be Sam's. He wants everything.

And he doesn't really mind that. Even if it does mean he has to stop hunting and find a house with a white picket fence and two cats and a dog and a nine to five life he wouldn't mind. Not if it makes Sam happy.

Eventually the coffee goes cold and Dean feels tiredness creeping up on him, soft, misty tendrils of sleep curling round his brain and muffling the synapses. They're blown away the second he hears the muffled groan from the bed.

"Mornin' Sleeping Beauty. Sleep well?"


End file.
